


𝜯𝖍𝖊 𝜯𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊 𝖔𝖋 𝕯𝖊𝖆𝖙𝖍, 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝕲𝖑𝖔𝖜 𝖔𝖋 𝖆 𝕱𝖎𝖗𝖊. 𝓘𝖙 𝖎𝖘 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖘 𝖙𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝖜𝖊 𝕯𝖊𝖘𝖎𝖗𝖊.

by SaltyTeaLeaves



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anilingus, Ass to Mouth, Bondage, Deep Rimming, Dubious Consent, Invisible Bindings, Leashes, M/M, Monstrous Features, Powerbottom, Rimming, Spine-tongue, Tentacle Sex, Tentacle tongue, Teratophilia, Twink Sauron, Worship, ass worship, facesitting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 02:40:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29394930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaltyTeaLeaves/pseuds/SaltyTeaLeaves
Summary: Sauron finds himself requiring attention most dire, and so he calls upon his most devout servant - the Witch King of Angmar - to attend his needs.It is not fury that drives this moment, but a yearning for passion, which he drags from the Black-Rider's shadowy depths eagerly, and enthusiastically.
Relationships: Sauron | Mairon/Witch-King Of Angmar
Kudos: 8





	𝜯𝖍𝖊 𝜯𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊 𝖔𝖋 𝕯𝖊𝖆𝖙𝖍, 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝕲𝖑𝖔𝖜 𝖔𝖋 𝖆 𝕱𝖎𝖗𝖊. 𝓘𝖙 𝖎𝖘 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖘 𝖙𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝖜𝖊 𝕯𝖊𝖘𝖎𝖗𝖊.

Man had come to know much during his time within the lands of Middle Earth. He had come to know safety, then comfort, then pride. He had learned methods to maintain his presence upon the realm's soil, sinking down into the stones with ferocity and enthusiasm that matched even the dwarves’ fervour for gold, before pulling his mighty structures up from the earth.

These obelisks of mortal vigour stood taller than the great trees of old, or so one is inspired to believe when beholding the grandeur of Minas Anor.

Man had come to know too much, and like wheat hanging low with its bounty both heavy and burdensome? It had reached the end of its span upon this world. The reaping had come. It would not suit these insects to simply taste death, now they had earned the right to drown in it.

It is this notion that a fair form held at its heart, long since turned to cinder within the fires of ferocity and war, tempered and steeled into a sharp blade poised at the throats of all living kind.

Naught but a notion. How can an ideal, a thought, turn to something so sharp and wicked? Squint, if you must, in disbelief, but do not utter undue dubiety for a thought is the most venomous of snakes. A notion was all that this petite figure of pallid skin and tender touch passes on to its uninitiated subordinates, and like a drop of distilled Nightshade, it is all that is required. Unlike the application of steel and axes, this is not done forcefully with a barked order, but gently. Softly. Akin to a needle slipping under the skin.

Of all the stock that comprised the breed of humanity, their most powerful were granted these gifts - for only man could sit atop a mountain and wish to soar ever higher until the cold abyss above swallowed him whole.  
  


Like a treasured boon, of gold and diamond and rubies, such a small thing the gifted notion is. Held aloft in the setting sun of some long forgotten kingdom, the kings would admire their bounty and smile. It was nether plain, nor did it remind them of the finality of things - though this too would pass, in time. Their gifts promised eternal life, they promised power, they promised greatness, and they delivered it in droves. And all they need offer in exchange is the entirety of their desire for these things. A unimportant trifle, barely a hindrance worth considering, when compared to the ravenous ambition of mankind.

Once, they clutched their power, greedy, lustful of might - and oh, what strength this 'notion' brought to them, fulfilling the heights of their cruel aspirations with nary a scrap of resistance. Like gluttons at a feast, they engaged earnestly in all they had craved until the exquisite became mundane, and even the simplest pleasures faded into a grey, unappealing slurry before their faded gaze.

With every life stripped from the bodies of their enemies, every action of great and terrible magics, their humanity had begun to creep away. Like a creature skulking in the shadows, the recesses of their minds turned to a cold, unfeeling thing. Their eyes hung heavy, vitriolic to all that breathed and spoke within their presence - bar the kindly stranger who had fed them this poison - until the reaper finally came to collect what he had sown. Only when the world is cleansed of all that is impure, would they find rest.

It was the first of these men that fell, for he bore the greatest power. Though they all found their individuality smothered beneath the great power burning upon their fingers, their first was the truest, and held the will of their reaper closest to his frosted heart.  
Obedience beckoned him upon the world of man like a locust upon crops, and he did so with the fires of devotion fuelling what once was a man, now a wicked forge of destruction.

His was the fastest fall, for the ring he was gifted by the fair 'elf' was mightiest indeed, rivalling even the elves with its efficacy. What purpose would a warmonger have for weak servants, after all? Two corpses stripped of flesh sat abreast a mighty garnet that looked as if blood had been caught in the ring's metal fangs. His signet was dire and morbid, and his heart once full of life mirrored it in the latter years of his life.

In the dead of night, its 'owner' (presuming a slave can truly possess anything of his own) would gaze into the red, and tighten his hazel stare into the murky, scarlet gem.  
Just beyond the flickering of his private chamber's crackling hearth, he could swear he beheld a fire within the gem. A roaring tempest glimmering out through its polished prison, focused squarely upon him. An unyielding eye of flames.

The sorcerer-king would chuckle at this fantasy, his laugh dry and bitter for no liquid brought him relief these days. No food was desired, no sleep demanded. His lids hung heavy and dark, but he remained awake to behold the generous boon with abject fascination, and adoration.

It was... a precious thing, and that which had held it before him first, moreso.

This men would smile as lover’s lost in a spring night might when enwrapped in sheets and enraptured in delight. But there was no race of passion in this page of their soul’s degradation - only the slow, deadly decline of damnation. Their skin sags, their bones brittle, and their flesh calcifies. Until death takes them, and the ghastly visage of a skull grins ever more in their place within some forgotten tomb. Unseeing, unending, but yet unfreed of this mortal realm.

Dragged up as they are from their corpse’s ribs, bones bending and breaking, cracking in a sickening symphony of raw, rotting rancour, a new ‘life’ is ushered forth. Of what ascends these barrows, is not the men they once were.

What rises is death, and death incarnate shall will just that unto the living, as is its due.

There were nine gifts blessed unto the realm of man. Each believing themselves deserved of the bounty beheld. Perhaps some were of Numenor, or perchance? Of Rohan, or maybe even further, distant realms where fate was anything but kind to them. It mattered not their origin, for beneath the battering waves of time they would become borderline indistinguishable from one another, both in the eyes of those that looked on in terror at these cloaked forms, and amongst themselves in the quiet of night when they rode silently, without speaking, and without life. They were the stones tempered at the shores of war; unyielding and eternal.

The night air was cold, and icy. It's crisp touch crept along the steel passages of Barad-dûr, and it would have frozen the rains were they anything but fire and ash so close to the raging inferno of Mount Doom. Winter had settled over Mordor, and while the mountain never slept, the wasteland that surrounded it was in hibernation.  
No barren hellscape is without the faintest scrap of life, and the land of Sauron featured the most unyielding variety of it, which now pushed ever on through the frost. Kept barely alive with its roots settled into the hardened clay and frozen dirt, fed only by spilled blood and rotting orc corpses, it was in the strangest sense ‘perfect’. Soon the green fields of man would know only this, and they would be grateful for it. This is the dream that haunted Mordor’s dark lord in all his hours; the wish for perfection. Not weakness, nor fragility, nor individuality. Only perfection would remain upon the lands of Middle Earth, and he considered nothing this wretched, putrid, rotting world comparable to the future he envisioned.

It all would burn in time.

Weeds covered in thorns, and brambles that stung to touch resisted the often hot soil, now chilled beneath the cold winds. Dead trees that had long since faded from all life stuck up from the caked earth, reaching for the mighty peaks of the fortress as if crying out to the unyielding steel for respite. No such offering would ever come. Even the orcs - though their war-machine kept them moving and active at all times - occasionally looked up at the steel monstrosity and stood in awe of their lord's creation, before the whip of their sergeants destroyed any thoughts but war.

Orcs were not privy to deep thoughts, nor lamentations of any variety beyond regret an instant before death. They were simple. They were a living, malignant extension of their master’s will, and that will was death to all.  
For now, and forevermore more. If the world would not bend to his inflexible demands, it would break, and be destroyed.

Within the high peaked towers of the citadel, the frosty air was sharp enough to rip the breath out of all living creatures that braved this cursed locale. No uruk dared venture passed the point where their grog-sacks became solid, and their shivering drew unwanted attention from those that traversed the steel aberration freely and unbreathing. Their bodies matched the cold, if what they possessed could still be considered ‘bodies’ after so many aeons.

These wraiths had received a great gift indeed, and that gift was death, and death was a power not willingly squandered. Blackened steel boots tread through the halls, echoing across the deathly silence like shattering glass, each step devoted in their purpose.  
Each without question, without dereliction of duty in any conceivable sense. Treason was not even a notion these bearers of death, enwrapped in darkness, could comprehend now beyond a vein of weakness only the living could muster.

Perhaps, once, among their ranks, one had dreamed of taking his power and carving his name in history books long since turned to dust in longer yet forgotten ruins. How he'd jeered and jested, toyed with the beautiful elf who had bestowed upon him this ring of power. A folly that had cost him his very soul.

A beautiful figure of tanned skin and long, flowing black locks, content to prod his "guest" like a mantis caught by a child, so long ago, yet he had not known which of them was truly the captive.

His sharp, citrine eyes incomparible to the burning flames that lingered within the fair Annatar's gaze, lit up as he pulled the soft skin to his own. He was drunk on power, and conjured tricks and delights whenever the faintest fancy slithered its impertinent way into his mind.

Inelegant and brutish with his ultimately pointless ambitions, he'd hammered out all he had disdain for without cunning or subtlety, but all the while his stunning 'aide' whispered into his ears. He whispered lies, he whispered truths, but never he uttered a word that did not ultimately lead to the sorcerer king's into his patiently spun web. For his purpose was singular, and devoted.

Perhaps this king of old had only fallen in the final moments of his life, a just and noble man who wanted nothing but the best for his people, despite the ferocity of his methods? Or, maybe, it was a matter of weeks that he'd lost his mind to the dark lord, giver of gifts, the fair Annatar from beyond the horizon of this mortal realm?

Now, these were but fantasies from a life long since snuffed out. Nothing remained of his soul - not the taste of wine, nor the touch of music upon his ears. Not even love lingered passed the threshold of death.

Well, almost.

It was a sick devotion that now coursed through his veins, its poison having fulfilled its deadly purpose aeons past, replacing his hot blood with stinging venom that denied even the sanest slither of his sapped sentience a conscience, and in time? Even a body. An ethereal wraith bound to its ring, which served a fitting collar for this beast.

The strings of reality that defined his cloak grew faint at their ends, became intangible, and frayed into nothingness not unlike his mind. It was difficult to determine where exactly his physical form began, and that of the spirit world anchored to the plane of the living ended.

Steel blackened by innumerable wars jutted out from the ragged, wispy rags, like grand spires atop Morgoth’s bloodthirsty temples. Each spear of metal was sharpened to a point, either by stone or from combat having broken it off, sharper and fresher, hungering for the touch of unripped skin.

His armour betrayed no inkling of mercy, for that which it donned bore none. He was as ice was to winter’s breath; unfeeling, and without care for those that shattered upon its unflinching malice. With every stride of this grandmaster of gruesome malevolence, slithers of that which lay beneath were bared for but a brief moment.

Where the metal found its base, there was no plating beneath it. Not chainmail, nor leather. Only the black, onyx surface of his (or at least, what might still constitute) ‘flesh’ rose up to swallow it, and it did so with enthusiasm. No gambeson comforted him, no padding, no need for these frivolities. He knew not pain - not now, not ever again.

From this jet surface, darkness oozed out as blood might have once, coalescing upon the floor and melting into the shadows of his master’s domain.

Look on in terror and lament; The Captain of the Black Riders, the Lord of the Nazgul. The master of Sauron’s most beloved slaves. The Witch King himself. The first of the Ring-Wraiths, and the most devoted of them all.

Devoted with such zeal that even the afterlife was shunned in favour of subservience.

They were Sauron's art, his sculptures carved from blocks of deception, and they served to hoist the fiery eye high so that it may behold all of Middle Earth, and loathe it ever more.

He too was, ever in the strangest sense, perfect. A masterpiece, chiselled out by Vala Aule’s most driven disciple, who had long since turned the Ainu’s craft to wickedness.

His very presence inspired a sense of satisfaction in his master when the fallen sorcerer-king was beheld. A small, trifling portion of the mortal world that had been finally purified. It drew a smile - earnest, yet not without deviant delight - from the Lord of Gifts that held the Witch King’s leash.

The mighty doors of the mightiest citadel, located above the beating heart of Mordor, swung open with a violent shove. The force of which was willed by the Witch-King himself, arms wide as the solid steel required force unknown to mortal men to even nudge them. Heat rushed out to embrace him, but its touch inspired no relief from death’s embrace.

Within the highest room of Barad-dûr, the air was not of this realm. It was his master’s creation, a boon of his will made manifest. Beyond the threshold, a room devoid of function beyond a solitary throne lay.  
What need does one who changes the world to his whims have for base furniture, especially when he can conjure whatever he desires, whenever he desires?

Those that follow his siren song included.

And in the centre of it all - like a spider sitting happily within its masterfully spun web - rested the most powerful being in Middle Earth, if not in raw power then by the extent of his raging armies sworn to the Maia’s grand machinations.

But what rested upon the throne was not a warlord bound in metal and hate manifest, but the heart of loathing. Tender, exposed, and vulnerable.

Or at least, seemingly so, as all that died upon the sharpened blade of his malice are prone to imagining.

The warmth that radiated from this figure of exquisite design was like the hot embers of a recently raging inferno having had its fill ravaging a dry forest. His heat had now cooled enough that fiery fury’s flames did not lick at the trees of creation, but simply sat in content bliss about the charred trunks - the markers of its devastation - emanating enmity intent for all of Middle Earth.

“𝓝𝖆𝖟𝖌𝖚𝖑…” The creature not of this world’s words were like honey, bubbling hot and trickling into the Witch King’s mind. Even as they slipped from the beautiful being’s soft lips, they stank of ash and summer. This was not the speech of man, nor a derivative of Neo-Black Speech, often employed by the stupid and uninitiated. Mostly orcs.  
No, this was the tongue of Sauron himself; Black Speech. Raw, and pure, with every word heavy like chains and bindings of steel. The fallen king was already upon his knee, barely within the berth of this beautiful bastard’s barren domain. Obedience was all he knew. Obedience was all he would ever know.

What absolute perfection.

“𝖄𝖔𝖚 𝖍𝖊𝖊𝖉 𝖒𝔂 𝖈𝖆𝖑𝖑, 𝔂𝖊𝖙 𝔂𝖔𝖚 𝖉𝖔 𝖓𝖔𝖙 𝐤𝖓𝖔𝖜 𝖜𝖍𝔂 𝔂𝖔𝖚 𝖆𝖗𝖊 𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖊.” The great being jeered, rising from his throne of thorns and blades. It was… difficult to look directly at him, his weight upon the room domineering and irrefutable, although he carried himself as light as a feather. "𝕯𝖔 𝔂𝖔𝖚 𝖓𝖔𝖙 𝖜𝖔𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖗 𝖜𝖍𝔂 𝔂𝖔𝖚𝖗 𝖒𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖇𝖊𝖈𝐤𝖔𝖓𝖘 𝔂𝖔𝖚 𝖘𝖔?"

Where the warmongering Maia’s greaves of metal had often trod, now heeled boots of perfectly cured leather tapped gently, tracing their familiar territory lazily. Be not deceived, oh gentle reader, by this gorgeous treachery’s sight. Though his features are of the fairest calibre, what lurks beneath the surface is as violent as Mount Doom itself.

His cheeks are sharp, and his skin unblemished and pale as a starlight elf. Oh what sinful contrast it had to his eyes. They burn like the forges of the orcs, and his hair flows in cascading lengths of fiery red down his slender frame.

Look upon Annatar, in all his majesty, and feel the sonnets of romance flow into your hearts! Look upon Sauron, in all his fury, and despair for what he wills is absolute, and final. Look upon Mairon, and know true love in all its wicked terror.

“𝓘 𝖈𝖆𝖓 𝖋𝖊𝖊𝖑 𝖎𝖙 𝖜𝖎𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖓 𝔂𝖔𝖚, 𝖊𝖛𝖊𝖓 𝖎𝖋 𝔂𝖔𝖚 𝖈𝖆𝖓𝖓𝖔𝖙. 𝓐 𝖘𝖍𝖔𝖚𝖑𝖉 𝖜𝖎𝖑𝖑 𝖓𝖊𝖛𝖊𝖗 𝖋𝖎𝖓𝖉 𝖎𝖙𝖘𝖊𝖑𝖋 𝖇𝖊𝖍𝖊𝖑𝖉 𝖇𝔂 𝖎𝖙𝖘 𝖋𝖔𝖈𝖚𝖘, 𝖆𝖋𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖆𝖑𝖑.” Sauron mused, the fine, almost wing-like sleeves of his tunic flowing as he claimed every step without resistance from this unwilling world that wished him elsewhere - anywhere else - but dare not enact upon its desire.  
Here, it had bucked and broken long ago. The land of man would shortly follow.

Where the softest silk was no longer present upon his gown, taut, tight leather filled its place, gripping to his slender form and hugging his curves. An aggressor, and an artist. A soldier and a seducer. A commander, and a charmer. Behold this incubus, but keep his image locked within your hearts, for it is as precious a thing as the One Ring.

He was burning nights and freezing days, he was fearful wars and euphoric celebrations both in perfect harmony; the thin line between love and agony made manifest. Any man or woman that witnessed Annatar would feel their soul torn in twain, uncertain whether flight or worship suited the gorgeous God of Destruction better. Both in forms fair and warlike.

Now, every inch of him was bladed metal, silken beauty, or leather that gripped his curves in a manner most… form-fitting. And in the centre of it all, atop his chest (both pert, and firm) lay a single, watchful eye emblazoned upon it. Lidless, and eternal, for this was the symbol of the Dark Lord.

The Witch King cast a quick glance up at Sauron, though his sight did not rise above the solitary, red eye upon the slim figure’s front, before quickly sliding back down to the black, marble floor lest his sight betray morbid fascination.

It pleased the fallen Maia to no small end that his appearance inspired thoughts unbefitting both mortals and immortals when they bore witness to him, or at least? When he still indulged in cunning as his modus operandi. 

“𝓘 𝖜𝖔𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖗, 𝖜𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝖆𝖗𝖊 𝔂𝖔𝖚 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖓𝐤𝖎𝖓𝖌?” He almost sounded as if a mother might when beholding their child, and his touch soon came within inches of the Nazgul’s form, teasing so tantalisingly close to the ragged hood that concealed no head within its dark embrace.

“𝕮𝖚𝖗𝖎𝖔𝖘𝖎𝖙𝔂 𝖑𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖊𝖗𝖘 𝖇𝖊𝖓𝖊𝖆𝖙𝖍 𝔂𝖔𝖚𝖗 𝖈𝖔𝖜𝖑. 𝕯𝖔 𝔂𝖔𝖚 𝖙𝖆𝐤𝖊 𝖕𝖗𝖎𝖉𝖊 𝖎𝖓 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖘 𝖆𝖙𝖙𝖗𝖎𝖇𝖚𝖙𝖊?” Atop the peaks of corpses, the Witch King felt no remorse. Astride his fellbeast he felt no joy even in the triumph of victory. But beneath those eyes of molten ore, emotions rushed to swallow him up, devouring him, and leaving him ravaged.

“No, my lord.” Unlike Sauron’s, the wraith’s voice held no summer touch, no tint of warmth. It was cold, and heavy, like granite blocks meeting stone foundations in a sudden, shattering slam.  
For all its import and rasping fury, it paled in comparison to the sheer force this gentle tone surrounding him carried. For all his grandeur, even the highest of man's great kings was incomparable to the Maiar. If, in undeath, he still could be counted among the kings of old.  
Perhaps a tomb bore his name in some distant land now swallowed by the ocean? Reprehensible fantasies of false honour, now this ‘king’ served a higher purpose - though a king he remain, he was a servant in function.

But then, what is a king without his crown? A lord without his circlet? This luxury was not denied the ringwraith, though a simple black hood would suffice if circumstance demand it. Where this spirit’s head might have been, a grand, vicious masque of metal barbs greeted all who would look upon it with terror - present company excluded. A mimicry of a crown decorated the helmet’s top, not entirely unlike the war-form the dread lord himself claimed, though this was of decidedly human design.  
Why dress as an elf or be granted the grandiose beauty of the Ainur smiths when the death of all man was he, and from man he had come? His purpose was clear, and with it brought certainty and peace.  
If one can construe a constant state of war as ‘peace’.

Perhaps he was buried with it, and this rustless ruse of humanity served as a trophy for the Maia who had claimed him? These mysteries found answers only within the depths of Sauron’s mind, but for all others its mystery was as likely to find answers as one might peer into featureless rider’s visage for expression, who bore no face within the thick shadow of his helm.  
  
Only the abyss stared out, invoking dread in orcs and elves and men and dwarves and all miscreant aberrations of flesh that dared trespass before him.

His blackened gaze was absolute in all places but here, for in this unfeeling cathedral of the Dark Lord, even the shadows felt inclined to pull back from the fallen Maia's glowing sight.  
  
“There is no… pride… to be found in this sickness.”

“𝓐𝖓𝖉 𝔂𝖊𝖙 𝓘 𝖍𝖆𝖛𝖊 𝖑𝖊𝖋𝖙 𝖎𝖙 𝖜𝖎𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖓 𝔂𝖔𝖚. 𝓢𝖔 𝔂𝖔𝖚 𝖉𝖊𝖎𝖌𝖓 𝖙𝖔 𝖉𝖊𝖈𝖑𝖆𝖗𝖊 𝔂𝖔𝖚𝖗𝖘𝖊𝖑𝖋 𝖇𝖊𝖙𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖘𝖚𝖎𝖙𝖊𝖉 𝖆𝖙 𝖉𝖊𝖈𝖎𝖘𝖎𝖔𝖓𝖘 𝖙𝖍𝖆𝖓 𝓘?” The rebuke was quick, and cut the spectre to his core. Shame flooded him, and he focused his sight sterner yet upon the polished floor.  
He was not worthy of Annatar’s grace, nor Sauron’s commands. Mairon, the manipulator of many names, was so very far above him, and for that matter? Above all of this cursed realm.

"𝕮𝖔𝖒𝖊 𝖓𝖔𝖜," His master’s touch finally reached him, and it sent a cascade of trembling bliss through the Nazgul’s body. The Dark Lord placed but a finger under the ringwraith’s helmet, and delicately drew his vision back up into the suffocating cage of that subduing stare once more.  
  
Though darkness shrouded his face, the Lord of the Rings could see deeper than even the Witch-King could, and his sight was not permitted opportunity to escape the fiery embrace looming just beyond.

Those eyes. Those eyes commanded obedience; a love born of slavery first and foremost. Their lashes hung heavy, long, glimmering against the glow of what few fiery sparks drifted free of Sauron’s rich, marigold sclera. His pupils were sharp, like that of a snake, but they seemed to stretch forever on. Into a darkness not of this world, nor the heavens themselves.  
Into the blackest reaches of the starry night, until all glimmer of the distant lights is snuffed out into nothingness.

And above these blazing orbs lay a hue darker in tone. The gentle touch of cosmetics were not unknown to the brilliant Maia, though he did not indulge in them to conceal imperfections, but to accentuate this already absolutely awe-inspiring image of incomparable allure. If perfection could be surpassed, it was the worst the land of Middle Earth had hosted that strode beyond its border.

“𝓢𝖆𝔂 𝔂𝖔𝖚 𝖉𝖔 𝖓𝖔𝖙 𝖙𝖎𝖗𝖊 𝖔𝖋 𝖒𝔂 𝖙𝖊𝖆𝖘𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘.”

Were the Witch-King capable of tightening his eyes, he would have done so. Sauron sensed this, and huffed indignantly before quickly revoking the contact he’d so graciously gifted his quarry. The coldness of wraithhood soon swallowed up the Nazgul, and in it he despaired, but took solace in its familiarity all the same

At least the serpentine eyes were removed of his undeserving design for a few passing seconds as Sauron circled the Nazgul, lost in some distant thought beyond his minion’s human comprehension.

“𝖄𝖔𝖚 𝖓𝖊𝖊𝖉 𝖓𝖔𝖙 𝖇𝖊 𝖘𝖔 𝖖𝖚𝖎𝖈𝐤 𝖎𝖓 𝔂𝖔𝖚𝖗 𝖏𝖚𝖉𝖌𝖊𝖒𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖘, 𝓦𝖎𝖙𝖈𝖍-𝓚𝖎𝖓𝖌, 𝔂𝖊𝖙 𝖚𝖓𝖈𝖗𝖔𝖜𝖓𝖊𝖉 𝖑𝖔𝖗𝖉 𝖔𝖋 𝖚𝖓𝖙𝖆𝖒𝖊𝖉 𝖑𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖘, 𝖒𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖔𝖋 𝖒𝔂 𝖆𝖗𝖒𝖎𝖊𝖘. 𝕱𝖗𝖎𝖛𝖔𝖑𝖎𝖙𝔂 𝖉𝖔𝖊𝖘 𝖓𝖔𝖙 𝖘𝖚𝖎𝖙 𝔂𝖔𝖚.”

“But it does you?”

The Maia froze, and the temperature dropped for a brief moment. He turned - ever so agonizingly slowly - to settle his fiery stare upon the sorcerer again with not a look of scorn, but fascination.

“𝖄𝖔𝖚 𝖜𝖔𝖚𝖑𝖉 𝖉𝖆𝖗𝖊 𝖘𝖕𝖊𝖆𝐤 𝖇𝖆𝖈𝐤 𝖙𝖔 𝖒𝖊, 𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖒?” It was not a question born of indignant authority, but incredulousness.

No reply met his query, for the black rider soon settled back within the depths of silence once more. He had spoken out, and indulged now in what he ought have done otherwise in the first place

Thankfully, stillness was not Sauron’s preferred avenue of aural delicacy, and his own smooth voice filled the air quickly, eager to devour the crushing emptiness that hung about the pair. There was no flame crackling in a hearth, no music, no chanting nor children here. Who knew how long he’d rested in the dark and dreary quiet before his Nazgul had answered his call?

“𝓘 𝖍𝖆𝖛𝖊 𝖆𝖑𝖜𝖆𝔂𝖘 𝖋𝖆𝖛𝖔𝖚𝖗𝖊𝖉 𝔂𝖔𝖚 𝖒𝖔𝖘𝖙 𝖆𝖒𝖔𝖓𝖌𝖘𝖙 𝔂𝖔𝖚𝖗 𝐤𝖎𝖓.” He resumed, drifting behind the robed figure who dared not rise or follow Annatar’s circling. He was unmoving, like a statue he remained upon the floor, and would do so until the world ended if his Lord willed it.

“𝖄𝖔𝖚 𝖜𝖍𝖔 𝖊𝖒𝖇𝖗𝖆𝖈𝖊𝖉 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖉𝖆𝖗𝐤, 𝖓𝖔; 𝖗𝖊𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖍𝖊𝖉 𝖎𝖓 𝖎𝖙. 𝖄𝖔𝖚 𝖜𝖍𝖔 𝖋𝖊𝖑𝖑 𝖘𝖔 𝖋𝖆𝖗, 𝖘𝖔 𝖖𝖚𝖎𝖈𝐤𝖑𝔂...” Sauron’s dreaded touch settled back upon the Nazgul, filling his shadowy form with that familiar glow afresh. His hands squeezed onto the wraith’s shoulders, testing the onyx ‘flesh’ beneath, which inspired a pleased smile from the great Mairon himself.

“𝜯𝖍𝖊 𝕸𝖎𝖉𝖉𝖑𝖊-𝖒𝖊𝖓 𝖔𝖋 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖘 𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖑𝖉 𝖑𝖆𝖈𝐤 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖖𝖚𝖆𝖑𝖎𝖙𝔂 𝖔𝖋 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝓝𝖚𝖒𝖊𝖓𝖔𝖗𝖎𝖆𝖓𝖘. 𝕯𝖔 𝔂𝖔𝖚 𝖗𝖊𝖈𝖆𝖑𝖑 𝓝𝖚𝖒𝖊𝖓𝖔𝖗? 𝓞𝖗 𝖉𝖔 𝔂𝖔𝖚 𝖗𝖊𝖈𝖆𝖑𝖑 𝓗𝖆𝖗𝖆𝖉, 𝕲𝖍𝖔𝖘𝖙 𝖔𝖋 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝕲𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖙𝖊𝖘𝖙 𝖔𝖋 𝓐𝖙𝖆𝖓𝖎?”

Riddles and rhymes… how suited they were for Annatar the giver of gifts, though one must not forget he was once Gorthaur the Cruel, though that name had remained dead for many centuries. Be not mistaken; those that give are often, in fact, taking from you something more.

“I… do not.” The Witch King’s response was earnest, if prolonged and uneasy.

“𝕮𝖆𝖓 𝔂𝖔𝖚 𝖋𝖆𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖒 𝖜𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝖎𝖙 𝖜𝖆𝖘 𝖙𝖔 𝖇𝖊 𝖆𝖑𝖎𝖛𝖊? ”

Silence was once again all the Nazgul could offer, though it spoke more than he ever could.

A sharp inhale escaped the elvish figure behind him, before his slim embrace slid over the Nazgul’s body, and his faintly defined chest pressed upon the Nazgul’s back. The Black Rider could feel it; deep within the Maia’s chest a heart pure and untainted beat, even if it was comprised of undiluted hate, condensed and refined into the purest form.

“𝜯𝖔 𝖇𝖊 𝖆𝖑𝖎𝖛𝖊 𝖎𝖘 𝖙𝖔 𝖉𝖊𝖘𝖎𝖗𝖊, 𝓚𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖔𝖋 𝕯𝖆𝖗𝐤 𝕸𝖆𝖌𝖎𝖈𝖘. 𝓘𝖙 𝖎𝖘 𝖆 𝖓𝖊𝖊𝖉, 𝖆 𝖋𝖚𝖓𝖉𝖆𝖒𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖆𝖑 𝖈𝖗𝖆𝖛𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖋𝖔𝖗...” Sauron the great defiler left his words to hover within the warm air of his abode, before he pulled himself in closer to the unmoving figure. His chin rests upon the wraith’s shoulder, and his senses were subject to all the Witch King had to offer.  
The stink of shadows, the air of decaying forests, the cool, almost refreshing touch of a denied afterlife soothed his burning body. He could almost taste the man’s soul, if such a thing still existed within those blackened recesses.

“…𝖋𝖚𝖑𝖋𝖎𝖑𝖑𝖒𝖊𝖓𝖙.”

The second Dark Lord to walk this world buried his face into the crook of the fallen King’s neck, and he took great joy in the bitter smell of abyss that lingered upon his cloak. It was almost intoxicating. No trace of man’s acrid scent remained, nor of orcs and their filth, or the self-righteous pomp of elves. Death was such an alluring thing to one who had lived for thousands of years, if only in aesthetic regard.

“𝓗𝖆𝖛𝖊 𝔂𝖔𝖚 𝔂𝖊𝖙 𝖌𝖚𝖊𝖘𝖘𝖊𝖉 𝖜𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝓘 𝖗𝖊𝖖𝖚𝖎𝖗𝖊?” He asked the stationary figure, plucking upon the shreds of sanity that chained the Nazgul to his master.  
"𝕮𝖆𝖓 𝔂𝖔𝖚 𝖋𝖆𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖒 𝖒𝔂 𝖇𝖆𝖘𝖊 𝖉𝖊𝖘𝖎𝖗𝖊𝖘? 𝓞𝖗 𝖒𝖚𝖘𝖙 𝓘 𝖙𝖆𝐤𝖊 𝖙𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝖜𝖍𝖎𝖈𝖍 𝓘 𝖓𝖊𝖊𝖉 𝖜𝖎𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖚𝖙 𝖕𝖊𝖗𝖒𝖎𝖘𝖘𝖎𝖔𝖓?" Sauron’s words were trembling, but his grasp firm, and as he leaned in he made no small effort to rest the full extent of his torso against the wraith’s back. He was so hot to the touch. Mesmerizingly so. Another intoxicating sensation, were such a thing possible for one who no longer cared for drink.

“…I cannot.”

Reluctantly, a sigh escaped the red-haired subjugator, frustration rising in his soul, though for once it was not directed upon the battlefield in a flurry of blades and maces, screaming corpses and dying soldiers engulfing his rage in a satiating symphony. For now he would take solace in nuzzling his face into the curve of his subject’s cold neck. With Sauron’s knees set upon the floor, it was impossible to ignore the throbbing stiffness pushing upon the lower extent of the Nazgul’s back.  
But even this inspired no thoughts indecent within the untemptable (and for the irritated Maia? Utterly contemptable) Black Rider, but determination - not stubbornness - kept the darling Annatar focused upon his lustful intent with passionate abandon.  
Oh how low the fallen beauty had come, enslaved to his base nympholepsy, but these needs were not to be ignored. Not here in his grand tower, nor anywhere within the extent of Arda’s domain. He would not allow it.  
The irrefusable Lord of all Middle Earth seizes all he wants - or razes it to the ground. A fire had taken ahold of his soul, and his body hid it not. He was quivering, shivering, the taut frame of Mordor’s lord gently rocking back and forth as his hips followed a sway of singular, gentle intent. Finally, he had enough and would extract his satisfaction from the its stony prison that enticed him so, like iron ore for the forges of Mordor.

“𝓗𝖆𝖛𝖊 𝔂𝖔𝖚 𝖘𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖓 𝔂𝖔𝖚𝖗 𝖑𝖔𝔂𝖆𝖑𝖙𝔂 𝖙𝖔 𝖒𝖊?”

The Nazgul knew this question had greater import than simple ego appeasement, but its full extent remained a mystery to him.  
“For all eternity...”

“𝓦𝖎𝖑𝖑 𝔂𝖔𝖚 𝖔𝖇𝖊𝔂 𝖒𝔂 𝖈𝖔𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖘 𝖜𝖎𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖚𝖙 𝖖𝖚𝖊𝖘𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓?”

He could feel Sauron’s breath upon him. He could feel those sharp fingers digging into his flesh, black ichor dribbling out around their golden nails, and sullying his already dark rags further. Only the dead could be so blind as to not see what Sauron needed.  
“With… absolute certainty, my lord.”

This pleased the Maia, and Mairon finally abandoned his undead servant’s still kneeling form, sliding off the icy frame reluctantly. It took but a few steps for Sauron - in all his majesty - to stand before the Nazgul, with his back to him Or, more prominently? His behind presented brazenly before the black rider. Legs spread, hips tilted, the form he’d chosen certainly was endowed with features most tantalizing! Alluringly curved, but neither distinctly plump nor muscular. ‘Perky’ fit this petulant, pretty pearl perfectly.  
Some regressive, flickering remnant of the Nazgul’s former self rolled over within him, stirred from its slumber within the dark recesses of his shadowy consciousness, reminded of times past yet still beyond the scope of his sleepless mind. It was a familiarity driven on by recognizable designs, though the ‘when’ and ‘where’ of his wonderings won no discernible declaration of identification.

  
  
Showmanship was not beneath the dark lord, nor should it be for one who once proclaimed himself the ‘Lord of Gifts’, with glamour and guile he gutted the strength of his enemy far more effectively than any cruel hook might. What is wrong with indulging in a little vanity, after all? With a smile clearly cast across his sleek face, Sauron permitted his sharp talons to trace the stretch of his tight-waisted sides, revelling in the soft touch of the shimmering, red silk and burgundy leather even as it began to unfold and drip from his body in a smouldering waterfall. Over his shoulder he did glance, his slitted sight settling squarely onto the stalwart, silent shadow of Gorthaur’s sworn nemeses. Fascination had taken hold of his heart, and his attention was absolute - not that anyone's could be anything other than that within the Dark Lord’s presence.  
As each strap of cloth deserted him, the warlord’s pale skin was revealed. No freckles nor spots lay beneath, no scar or touch of battle remained, for in his conceit the Maia’s purity lingered still into the darkest hours of the Second Age. For one so closely associated with flames, one might expect skin dark and rich to don the warlord, but instead he was as light as is Winter’s first snow. And upon that frost, with the coming of spring, he was a pristine doe that felt uncontrollably drawn to the bucks and their… brutish beacons of barbaric libido, oft applied liberally and brutishly for their personal appeasement, not his.  
The last slither of leather slid from Sauron’s slender sides. Finally, enough of his attire had abandoned the alluring figure to reveal his perky posterior in all its gently glittered glory. It was perfect, and this was a concept even the Dark Lord was subject to admitting. Assured of this notion, he squeezed his regal rear, relishing the wonderful sensation this motion inspired beneath his skin, complete with a trill of delight escaping him neither hindered nor restrained.

“𝓘 𝖍𝖆𝖛𝖊 𝖕𝖚𝖗𝖕𝖔𝖘𝖊 𝖋𝖔𝖗 𝔂𝖔𝖚, 𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖛𝖆𝖓𝖙 𝖔𝖋 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖘𝖍𝖆𝖉𝖔𝖜𝖘.” The Dark Lord whispered, trembling as his slender hand rose. The ring - the One Ring - dark speech glowing upon its golden band, drifted away from the still seated shadow, and with it the Nazgul lurched forward onto both knees. An invisible leash upon him urged him closer to the glowing Maia, who took his other, equally slender hand and lowered it before him.  
Why pretend he did not delight in anticipation? Leisurely, Sauron’s touch drifted along his trim stomach, edging down along the definition of his groin, until finally reaching the twitching length of his bared manhood. He gently traced his fingertips along its length before softly settling his grasp upon the slim member.

Suddenly, he yanked upon the unseen chains violently, forcing the Nazgul’s sharp visage against his rear, subject to the Summery heat of his skin, though the sharper extensions of the bound phantom’s helmet did not pierce the pallid flesh it met, unlike that of all man.  
Even the metal of Mordor feared Sauron, and left him unharmed.

“𝓐𝖙𝖙𝖊𝖓𝖉 𝖒𝔂 𝖓𝖊𝖊𝖉𝖘. 𝓘 𝖔𝖗𝖉𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖘 𝖔𝖋 𝔂𝖔𝖚.”

Though the… exact origin of this unusual request was a too foreign for the Nazgul to completely comprehend, familiarity laid its past-tread road out before him, and from within the blackness of his helmet, the immaterial began to stir to follow its ordained path. The gloom peeled back, revealing razor-sharp blades in rows that pierced the dim of his masque. No, these were not blades.

They were f _angs._

Teeth long and pointed, unburdened by the presence of lips, they so carnivorous in design that even the Numenorian entitled the ‘Mouth of Sauron’ would feel inept compared, spread wide for their master. With strands of ghostly saliva dangling between them, an appendage began to work its way out into the warm air, much to Annatar’s trembling captivation.

This was no tongue that spoke the words of man, nor was capable of such lingual endeavours, for its purpose ought be fear and fear alone. What wormed out of the shadowy visage was long, and bore many ridges, each thicker and more defined than the last. It was a spine, bound together with stretches of black, slimy flesh that strained at the creaking joints while this worrisome tendril did curl steadily out of the tenebrous hood, and dragged up along the Maia’s soft skin - earning a content whimper of pleasure from the pale host. A curious thing, it slithered along the underside of Sauron’s backside, tracing the faint line where his derriere met his thigh, before rolling back over the firm flesh to drift betwixt the darker recesses of Mordor’s ruler, closer to its awaiting goal which wished very much for the two to meet with no further delay.  
After all, what body does not betray its wearers subconscious fancies at every turn whenever gifted the chance?

“𝓢𝖑𝖔𝖜𝖊𝖗, 𝖒𝔂 𝖇𝖊𝖑𝖔𝖛𝖊𝖉.” The Maia barked, his ethereal tone freezing the tongue’s curious wandering in its tracks, before he settled back into a more mellifluous melody. Both the Witch-King and his master knew that attestation of adoration was not due him, but the appealing appendage so precariously close to the dark-lord’s darker ring. “𝓗𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊 𝖎𝖘 𝖚𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖛𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖔𝖋 𝖔𝖓𝖊 𝖘𝖔... '𝖌𝖎𝖋𝖙𝖊𝖉' 𝖆𝖘 𝔂𝖔𝖚. 𝕰𝖛𝖊𝖓 𝖎𝖓 𝖑𝖎𝖋𝖊 𝔂𝖔𝖚 𝖜𝖊𝖗𝖊 𝖆𝖑𝖜𝖆𝔂𝖘 𝖘𝖔 𝖗𝖚𝖘𝖍𝖊𝖉. 𝓢𝖑𝖔𝖜𝖑𝔂, 𝓘 𝖈𝖔𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖓𝖉. 𝓘 𝖜𝖆𝖓𝖙 𝖙𝖔 𝖗𝖊𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖘.” This new sensation that burned within the wraith was so strange to him, but not entirely unwelcome. A pyre of emotions had been set alight within his cold breast, churning inside, and urging him onwards. It almost felt pleasant, albeit his mind urged him to remember that this feeling was born exclusively from subservience to a greater power, and naught else. Yet ever on the cinder of lust dragged the undead warrior to fulfil his master’s invitation.

The spine-like tongue, with its sharp tip, resumed its duty - albeit carefully and painfully cautiously - drifting along the inner definition of Sauron’s bottom, leaving icy saliva in its wake. It rose up to the small divot above his rear, then slithered south once more, edging along the border of Mairon’s distinctly eager rim- careful not to invoke the Maia’s wrath once more by pressing against the twitching hole so bewitchingly close - and along the stretch of flesh beneath the heat-radiating hole, before flicking off his balls with a shiver of pleasure to commend the Ringwraith’s skilled oral efforts. Once more the appendage met Sauron’s hot skin, but this time the Maia leaned back into it to relish the slimy sensation more earnestly.  
It slipped, this slippery spear of salacious satisfaction, deeper along the beauty’s flesh until once more it found itself against the hole, but this time there was no rebuke for its _curiousity._ A silent nod served all the fanfare the Witch King required, and finally his ‘tongue’ began to fulfil its absolute purpose.

Around the darkened flesh it slithered, soaking his eagerly winking pucker in a clear, sticky lubricant, before finally - oh so finally - teasing itself into the warmth-emitting rim, which bore hotness so intense it warped the air about it faintly. If the skin of the dark lord was akin the the near liquified rocks atop the slopes of Mount Doom, his insides featured a temperature tenfold so. It was like a furnace within him, his heat sinking into the grinding bones of the Witch King’s sinful, slick tendril much akin to how the Nazgul’s ghostly spit drenched his master’s skin, and dribbled down the heavenly Maia’s thigh, sullying what leather remained upon his legs until meeting the floor in a sticky puddle.

“𝓞𝖍 𝖇𝔂 𝕸𝖔𝖗𝖌𝖔𝖙𝖍... 𝔂𝖊𝖘... 𝖉𝖊𝖊𝖕𝖊𝖗...” Sauron whimpered, if any words uttered in Black Speech could be construed as ‘whimpering’, or carrying a shred of weakness for that matter. He pulled back upon the Nazgul’s osseous licker, rocking his hips from side-to-side as he did so, eager to urge it deeper yet. How could the Black Rider deny him that? Down below, passed the rags and warped, onyx flesh that bore designs not unlike that of a man’s form - though the muscles were strange and unusual in their structure - a familiar length of cool enthusiasm made itself known. A still, untwitching, and unattended thing it was, but the extent of it was not without due recourse. A daunting tower of stone-like arousal stood between the Ringwraith’s bent legs, hanging disregarded and solitary in its devotion to Sauron’s beautiful form. It seemed more of the Witch King’s humanity remained than he had bargained, but then? This thing dare not meet living flesh, for the sharp studs of metal sticking through the glazen skin would surely spell agony for any that took it.

Well, any bar he who had carved it from the soul of the wraith, of course, who cast his sight down, and found it was he who was forced to look away. Wicked fantasies flooded his mind, and his mouth salivated with aspiration, but he stayed his course for his physical needs had the reigns upon him just as he did upon the Nazgul. For now, it would see no attention. Sauron was exceptionally enthused to relish his tongue-lashing this eve. And oh, how it lashed! And licked and lapped; a lingual delicacy he deemed himself deserving.  
Every time it twisted within him, he felt a new, deeper section of his tight rear stretched out, eliciting an unfamiliar, unusual warble of bliss from his throat with each curl of the segmented glossa down below. Whenever it intended a new course, the behemoth of a tongue (now extended to such a degree that few would argue that it was anything but a spine) turned sharply, its vertebrae dragging deeply into Sauron’s tingling insides, and shifting to follow the daring tip ever on into the dark of the Fiery Eye’s overlubed, overheated hole. He tasted of Summer, of the radiating fire of the hottest season’s solstice burning bright during the sun’s zenith. It was exhilarating, and the Nazgul drowned within the Maia’s inebriating aura.

Sauron pulled his rear up, and finally surrendered fully to the foul spectre’s adoration as he sat squarely upon the ring-wraith’s face with a wiggle of his hips in addition, for pleasure’s sake. Beneath that perky bottom, his servant furthered his enthusiasm; pushing every inch of that ever-stretching tongue deeper into his master. At first the ridges had slid in against a tight resistance that did its best not to eagerly swallow the invading feature too earnestly, but now over a foot of it had curled within the Ring-bearing conqueror, and the vertebrae had grown long and clearly separated indeed. Every time a new segment of bone met his pulsing pucker, the faintly gaping hole offered little to consciously resist him before devouring the delicious feature up with a wet ‘Pop!’, and a happy shiver from the Maia that now bore it. Now, it was the girth of his rim that found itself struggling, barely able to match the pervading appendage that forced itself in at a steady, mind-numbingly pleasant pace, forcing it wider and wider with each new, openly invited constituent of bone, promising that he would be left tender for weeks to come.  
  
Tender, and aching for more. Within minutes, the extent of his hole was filled, and having met its absolute point, the spine began to coil back and prod along Sauron’s soft lining. Digging into his succulent flesh, teasing at every yet-untouched stretch of his insides before pushing and grinding into it with lustful intent. The Dark Lord of Mordor was permitted a great boon by sitting upon the Nazgul’s face, for the servant could not see his master’s own beyond those soft cheeks; a look of absolute euphoria had settled upon Mairon’s fair features. Panting, each breath heavy and soaked in pheromones that would drive any living man into a frenzy, with his lids heavy and lips split in a lurid smile, Sauron wept with joy.  
Lust commanded his heart, and with every tug of the Nazgul’s leash? His obedient plaything fulfilled the dark lord’s deepest desires. Oh so very deep… Curling, twisting, coiling; it strained against his rear’s absolute limits, filling the eager Maia with pleasure unsuited for one of his standing, yet he relished it so.

The sheer weight of what was forced inside him lay heavy upon his sensitive prostate, grinding down into it with more wicked fulfilment than any stretch of manhood had prior, urging the Lord of the Ring’s blackened heart to pound brighter and brighter as his ‘ring’ found something most challenging to properly engulf. His slender frame shook as he found truer form he had chosen bore little resistance to release, and rather than fight the coming wave of euphoria, Sauron met it full stride. It was clear he had little time left, but for the moment he did not care. A dizzying hysteria of shivering salacity had devoured him entirely. "𝓗𝖆𝖗𝖉𝖊𝖗! 𝕸𝖔𝖗𝖊! 𝓘 𝖓𝖊𝖊𝖉 𝖒𝖔𝖗𝖊, 𝓝𝖆𝖟𝖌𝖚𝖑! 𝓘 𝖓𝖊𝖊𝖉 𝖎𝖙! 𝕱𝖚𝖑𝖋𝖎𝖑 𝔂𝖔𝖚𝖗 𝖒𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗'𝖘 𝖜𝖎𝖘𝖍𝖊𝖘, 𝖋𝖚𝖑𝖑... 𝖋𝖎𝖑𝖑 𝖒𝖊 𝖚𝖕..."

The Dark Lord pressed his chest forward, and put what little of his weight he could still muster down against the wraith, his cheeks meeting the sharp fangs below, which left faint stretches of scratched flesh where the two contacted, though Sauron had little care or regard for his safety now. A burning sun of ardour enamoured Annatar, and in its glow he felt his stress melting and bubbling into nothingness. Every twist of the tongue so deeply embedded inside him coursed hot, lighting-like rapture along his pale limbs, and in its fire he considered burning off all he wore to writhe and squirm utterly naked in the dark. To be used, to be left overflowing and gushing with the hot taste of another man’s seed.   
To feel like he had when within Melkor’s embrace. He needed it, and though his hand stroked his slim, tender length, he wished the Witch King would take his soft arms within those sharp gauntlets and deny him even that. With one final buck of his quivering hips, the greatest being in all Middle Earth tilted his head back and let loose a cry of passion unfettered, echoing through all of Barad-dûr. His climax ravaged the tender fields of his body, rolling through every inch of his nerves as the Witch King’s enthusiastic rimming reached an indescribable, enrapturing height of satisfaction, earning another wail of wondrous pleasure as the orgasm continued well past the due of any mortal.

Sauron’s gaze was aimed high, but he focused on no feature of the throne room’s ceiling, for he dumbly grinned through his high, enamoured and utterly devoted to the feeling that coursed his body. A quivering, teary-eyed mess that was lost in bliss most numbingly brilliant. It was some time until he came down from the peaks of his bliss, and when he did he felt every inch of his body tingling, a steady trickle of spent seed leaking from his tip above the extent of his shameful orgasm. As his lord’s ecstasy died down, the Witch King continued his thorough tongue-fucking, though its pace and rampant fervour had slowed down, growing weaker and more subdued as every second passed, until finally he was certain his darling Annatar was content.  
  
The ridged appendage began to draw from Sauron, and while decorum would bid one deny you the sloppy cacophony of bubbling spit and juices that followed it, take heed that even Sauron felt a flush of shame soak his features as his rim spluttered and splattered clear fluids most obscenely. Believing the majority of the Maia-tasting appendage had receded back within it’s owner’s shadowy body, the Lord of the Rings pulled himself forward, before stumbling as yet more the tongue slid out, leaving him unsteady and lumbering forward. He almost lost his balance, but he regained his posture after a few shaky steps, careful to avoid stepping upon the still glowing, glittery cum beneath him, almost lava-like in its luminescent appearance.   
The Dark Lord of Mordor endeavoured to maintain some semblance of proper form, even if his perfectly pinchable behind was still slick with wraith spit and pulsing in some desperately, ultimately fruitless attempt to close. It had been quite some time since he had been subject to such a wholly hole-widening guest.

"𝕸𝖔𝖘𝖙 𝖘-𝖘𝖚𝖋𝖋𝖎𝖈𝖎𝖊𝖓𝖙... 𝖄𝖔𝖚 𝖍𝖆𝖛𝖊 𝖉𝖔𝖓𝖊 𝖜𝖊𝖑𝖑..." Sauron muttered, his prick softening, spent but certainly not above rising again should he indulge in further devious designs. But, one as old as he knows that pleasure is best indulged in occasionally, when it consumes you and is offered no distraction from its bliss. Ever his age remained an amusing notion, given how young the panting beauty looked, and how subject he was to youthful endeavours such as these. Or, rather, fantasies of these in the dead of night when none would disturb him. Even as glowing tears welled at the edges of his smouldering eyes, he was determined to try and keep his face from betraying just how tempted he was to return atop his now undoubtedly favourite Nazgul when presented with the yet still retreating tendril, yet soaked in his juices, and promising him pleasures that could devour his entire evening.  
Or week, should he feel so inclined.

Perhaps a little thanks was in order? The Nazgul needed none, nevertheless; the Maia might find himself remorseful later should he starve himself of the yet untasted depths of depravity when opportunity openly presented itself before him, not unlike his most tender region had been. His pucker would offer him no abatement from its incessant need, for it tightened uselessly upon nothing, desperate for further attention. Sauron was obliged to face his beautiful rear away from the Witch King, not only for posterity’s sake, but so that the Ringwraith was not privy to how Sauron’s fingers gently rubbed and slid into himself like a bitch in heat.  
If war he hungered for, then base satisfaction was for what he thirsted.  
Unwilling to let this chance slip by him, the glimmering, shivering sweetheart crouched down before his captain, earning a cautious flinch from the freshly ridden Ring-Wraith, but upon his knees there was no fast retreat available. With a sigh (not entirely unrelated to having to force his touch away from the buzzing need down below), Sauron tentatively settled his hands along the underside of the spine-like appendage, slowing its retreat before letting his own soft lips embrace it as if it were his own. The large majority had already escaped him, but what remained matched the length of most men’s members, and it took Annatar an amount of exertion to engulf the ‘tongue’ that he had not anticipated.   
The sloppy gag that escaped Sauron was anything but graceful, but there was comfort knowing the Black Rider would mention this to none beyond the confines of this throne-room.   
  
The taste of his own body was familiar, yet he was unaccustomed to it all the same. Even he marvelled at how warm it was, and in all absolute honesty? He quite enjoyed it, in a special, sordid style of sinful satiety. Down, down along the ridges and vertebrae he slid, his own slick tongue meeting the black, rubbery muscles that ran along the length of the spine. He lapped along the underside of the Nazgul’s quivering, icy tongue, engulfing that which had passed his soft lips, and his open maw, into his throat with enthusiasm few had witnessed him enact upon them. It squeezed and tightened upon the invading member, while his own, curious hands abandoned their prize to reach for yet untouched places.  
  
The Witch King’s cock felt cold, and heavy, but its girth rivalled even that of his wrist, and it delighted the tiny Maia to no small end. Every stud, every ridge, and icy expanse of frozen along the black obelisk of onyx and shadow promised the fiery beauty pleasures that would stand rival to any battle won. Oh how tempted he was to redirect his own oral efforts there, with those claw-like gauntlets gripping his fiery mane tightly, to use him roughly and with singular intent. The thought of his cheeks caked in running eye-liner, tears hot and rich as cold, deathly seed splattered upon his ruined face made him squirm pathetically. His golden stare was weak, and pleading as he reached the limit of throat’s capacity, and his soft lips hung mere millimetres from the Witch King’s fangs, before pulling back off both it and the gorgeous length of near hip-shattering girth below. _Oh he was a tease, this much we can tell is truth._

Spittle dangled between his slimy licker and the Witch King’s almost entirely re-devoured tendril, quickly escaping into the abyss between those devilishly sharp fangs, which fell shut like the Black Gate itself. Finally, all trace of that wonderful spine-like appendage was gone, devoured by the umbra of his hood once more. Sauron opened his own mouth, heat rising from the open maw as he drew his own flexible, pierced tongue out, and along the edges of his lips to savour their mixed flavour once more, careful to not waste a single drip.

“𝓦𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝖆 𝖕𝖊𝖈𝖚𝖑𝖎𝖆𝖗 𝖙𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊. 𝓘 𝖒𝖚𝖘𝖙 𝖆𝖉𝖒𝖎𝖙 𝓘 𝖆𝖒 𝖖𝖚𝖎𝖙𝖊 𝖋𝖔𝖓𝖉 𝖔𝖋...” No, he need not indulge, he should not submit to these whims. Sauron needed nobody, and that was exactly who would accompany him within his lonely lair of loathing. As it should be. “…𝜯𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝖜𝖆𝖘 𝖒𝖔𝖘𝖙 𝖆𝖉𝖊𝖖𝖚𝖆𝖙𝖊, 𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖛𝖆𝖓𝖙.”

Silence. His ringwraith did not move, it did not shift. Of course; it was waiting patiently for release, as all his most devoted servants required. How _irritating._

“𝕷𝖊𝖆𝖛𝖊 𝖒𝖊.” Sauron hissed, voice full of venom and barely concealed spite. “𝖄𝖔𝖚 𝖍𝖆𝖛𝖊 𝖉𝖚𝖙𝖎𝖊𝖘 𝖊𝖑𝖘𝖊𝖜𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖊, 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝓘 𝖙𝖎𝖗𝖊 𝖔𝖋 𝔂𝖔𝖚𝖗 𝖕𝖗𝖊𝖘𝖊𝖓𝖈𝖊.”

The Black Captain’s silent gaze offered no affirmation nor indication of his gratefulness or dismay at this conclusion, rather a curt, solemn nod was all he had for his vulnerable and altogether uncouthly clothed creator. The Nazgul rose, his cloak of shadows flowing beneath him as he quickly re-established which of the two stood tallest, with absolute certainty staring down at Sauron as he was forced to tilt his glare up at his servant. This proved to be Sauron’s rapid undoing, for when beholding this towering warrior in all his grave design, he could not help but feel a sudden, inescapable urge to wrap himself upon him and have his way with the Ring-Wraith again. And again. _And again.  
_ Without a word, the Black Rider turned about upon his sharp sabatons, and strode beyond Sauron’s reach with no indication of what had happened between them, bar the glowing warmth that still echoed within his cold figure. His duty had been fulfilled, and though an unusual request for certain, it was certainty that drove the sorcerer-king to return to his master’s war-like machinations.

The great doors of the throne-room closed, the last flicker of the Witch King’s form earning a curious, tilted glance from his lord, whose radiant eyes followed him until not a shred of the black-rider remained in sight. Only the taste of his icy, death-tainted tongue, and the distinctly ravished sensation within the very depths of Sauron’s tingling body remained. With a furrowed brow, the beautiful Maia slid back across the room to return to his brooding. Straps of fine leather grew to cover where their fallen brethren had once been, pleasantly cupping Sauron’s perky behind once more, and hiding all of his pale flesh that he wished hidden from the world, his enemy. When the Dark Lord settled down upon his massive throne - a grand feature both vicious and terrifying to bear witness to - it was not with a sigh of contentment, but a huff that betrayed what he was feeling within.

Sauron shifted upon the steel seat. Sore? Certainly, but sure as he was of all things within the borders of Mordor, he knew the feeling feeding his frustration would not abandon him altogether anytime soon. Within a few moments alone in this lifeless domain, his squirming became a desperate, agitated grinding as he did his best not to succumb to his needs a second time, but it was of little use. The Dark Lord of Mordor cursed under his breath in Valarin, and attempted to rest as comfortably as he could upon the steel seat, which had already warmed beneath his burning flesh.

He should not have sent the Witch King away, for that length between the wraith’s powerful thighs would surely have satiated his libidinous desideratum for a few more hours, until he would have need for it again, and again, and again.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, gentle audience.
> 
> I know Valentine's Day rapidly approaches, and so in order to rectify any loneliness that might beset you, I have constructed a pleasant little one-shot for your delight.  
> Truth be told, this is my way of dealing with a burning ship I've had in my heart for the past month, which unfortunately is not helped by a number of Sauron roleplayers who have left me hanging for over two weeks, so take this and treasure it. 
> 
> Other fanfictions I have intended to finish have been put on hold as I work on another smutty creation following this one. Expect some particularly sordid material involving Inquisitors in the Star Wars galaxy.  
> As ever, I wish you a pleasant day, and an even better tomorrow. Spoil yourself, and go enjoy a nice bowl of chocolate ice-cream, and a film to enjoy on the often miserable day of roses. You're important, and being alone does not detract from that value.
> 
> Yours sincerely,  
> The author.


End file.
